


Storm Ignites The Flame

by the_storm_winds



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Emotional Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Jealousy, M/M, Megatron being a smug asshole, OP and Ratch gotta make up for lost time, Optimus slowly losing his cool, Sexual Harassment, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Taunting, because OP is a goddamn sap who gets distracted by feelings, like really heckin sticky I can't believe I wrote this, nice job fixing it villain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 22:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15496572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_storm_winds/pseuds/the_storm_winds
Summary: Megatron stalked closer. “What I amgetting at,my dear Prime—” He hooked a claw under Optimus's chin, to which he responded by pressing a blaster to the side of his chassis. The warlord ignored it, leaning forward to whisper into his audial.“—is that I fragged your medic.”Megatron corners Optimus, taunting him with explicit description of every dirty detail of his one-night stand with Ratchet. Optimus can only listen uncomfortably, envious and more than a little turned on, until Megatron mentions just whose name Ratchet called out…Optimus goes to find Ratchet after that, determined not to let his dear friend suffer another klick of thinking his longing is unrequited. It turns out, this was just the push that they needed.





	Storm Ignites The Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes you read [a tumblr post](https://shockboob.tumblr.com/post/159404082709/oldrobos-shockboob-oldrobos-arteriu-s) and you just. gotta.
> 
> Assume this is set on some random planet at a point where both sides have slightly more forces but still few enough for Ratchet to be managing communications.

“I trust you have been well, _Optimus Prime?”_

Optimus snapped his battle mask shut. “What do you want, Megatron?”

They were in a small communications outpost, recently abandoned but with working equipment. Ratchet had requested that he bring back anything they could use on his way back from patrol. He hadn't expected to run into Megatron.

“Only to inquire after the health of one Chief Medical Officer who recently left my care.”

Optimus didn't break his glare. “He is fine.”

“Oh, good. I told you I would return him safely if you agreed to my terms. And I did. Generous, aren't I?” He laughed. “Though really, _four_ of my high-ranking officers in exchange for one medic? Had I known he was so valuable, I would have captured him sooner.”

He fixed his gaze on Optimus. “You were so desperate to make the deal, I regret that I did not ask for more. Were you worried that I might hurt your precious _friend?_ ” He drew out the last word, chuckling. “There was no need; I treated him well. In fact, I daresay he enjoyed he _enjoyed_ his time as my prisoner a great deal more than he ever has with you.” He grinned, razor-sharp teeth glinting in the light.

Optimus narrowed his optics. “What are you getting at?”

Megatron stalked closer. “What I am _getting at,_ my dear Prime—” He hooked a claw under Optimus's chin, to which he responded by pressing a blaster to the side of his chassis. The warlord ignored it, leaning forward to whisper into his audial.

“—is that I fragged your medic.”

Optimus staggered back, angling his side to him in a defensive stance. “Do not lie to me, Megatron.”

He threw back his helm and laughed. “You think I am lying?”

“Ratchet loathes you.”

“Does he?” Megatron feigned contemplation. “Yes, I suppose he does. And yet that did not stop him from screaming for _more_ when I had him bent over the tabletop…” His optics glinted with something predatory as he spoke. “When I pinned him down and slowly pushed my spike into him…”

It took every thread of Optimus's concentration not to react to those words, discomfort coagulating in his tanks. Megatron was trying to get under his plating, he knew; he couldn't afford to lose his composure.

Megatron began to walk a slow circle around him, forcing him to rotate to keep him in sight. “He opened his panel for me willingly, you know. His valve was wet before I even touched it.” His lips curled up in a smirk, slow and dangerous.

“It felt _incredible_ around my spike. His inner mesh was searing with heat, and his calipers clenched and _squeezed_ around me as I thrusted up into him...” He stopped and lifted a servo as he spoke, curling his digits one by one in a crude mimicry of the motion. Optimus's optics followed it, transfixed. “And when I angled my hips just so, he would cry out, gasping, _desperate_ for more.”

A shiver went up his backstrut, misplaced arousal bubbling up and coiling inside him.

“And I gave it to him.” Megatron turned to face him, optics boring into his. “I gave your precious medic what he’s wanted, what he'd been deprived of for vorns.” He walked closer. “I held him down, and I thrust into that spot again and again until he screamed as overload shook through him.”

Optimus could feel his systems heating as the images crept into his processor.

Ratchet… like _that_ …

He refused to allow his cooling fans to turn on. If Ratchet had really done this, then… then him hearing it was… an invasion of his privacy…

“You've told me enough,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “It is not my place to concern myself over whom Ratchet chooses to interface with.”

“Is that so? Well, you are welcome to disable your audial sensors if you so choose. I cannot stop you. But I don't think you'll do that, Optimus.” He stepped closer, and Optimus took a step back. “I think you _want_ to know what I did to him. How _thoroughly_ I _pleasured_ him.” Megatron took another step, smug satisfaction oozing from every part of his frame and field.

“You didn't think I would stop at just one overload, did you?” He chuckled. “Oh, no. I kept going. Each time I pulled out it was only to push back in with even greater vigor, while he panted helplessly in effort to draw cool air into his systems, because even his fans were insufficient.” His words corroded through Optimus's composure like warm acid, and he denied yet another request from his fans. “I _ravaged_ him. I filled him until he could take no more.”

Optimus could feel himself overheating, the pressure behind his panel growing unbearable. He shifted his weight, bringing his legs closer together in a vain attempt to ease it. Megatron's optics caught the movement and he smirked. “Are you picturing it now, Optimus? How your dear medic looked, debauched and moaning, fully at my mercy?”

Optimus was grateful for his battle mask, which hid most of his face—the twitch of his intake as the image took form in his processor, unbidden. He pulled his field in tight beneath his plating, no longer trusting himself to keep his emotions from bleeding into it.

Megatron didn't relent. “We were both sticky with his lubricants. His valve made so much that it ran down his thighs and onto the floor. It _squelched_ obscenely around my spike each time I pushed in, and magnified the charge generated by the friction.

“It built up in pulses, each aligned with the increasing rhythm of my thrusts. The clang of metal echoed throughout the room, and the scent of ozone hung heavy in the air. And still I went _harder, faster._ ” His tone pitched lower with each word, his gaze burning.

“I overloaded in him, _filling_ him.” His voice was now almost a growl. “And he _moaned_ , long and low and heavy with static, when my transfluid and released charge proved too much for him to bear.”

Optimus resisted the urge to shutter his optics. _Ratchet could interface with whomever he chose,_ he reminded himself.

“He could only lie there afterwards, too spent to move,” the warlord continued. “He was surprisingly attractive like that, with his legs spread, fans running hard, lubricant and transfluid dripping from his exposed valve…” He trailed off, folding his servos behind his back and letting his optics wander up towards the ceiling, as though recalling the moment. Then he looked at Optimus and grinned. “Especially knowing that he's _your_ medic and it was _me_ who made him that way.”

Megatron started to walk past him, circling him once more. Again Optimus rotated after him; he still couldn't afford to let his guard down. “Do you know what we talked about, Optimus?” Megatron asked.

Optimus blinked, startled at the sudden change of topic, until Megatron continued, “What got him all hot and bothered? _Whom_ he cried out for each time he overloaded?” He let the questions hang in the air, silence charged as the instant between lightning and thunder.

“ _You_.”

Optimus froze. His tanks churned cold, then hot. He lost his control over his cooling fans and they came to life with a deafening _whir._ Megatron was behind him now; he couldn't see his face but he could feel the triumph in his field as it pressed around him.

“He _wants_ you. He wants you so badly that he let down his defences and submitted himself to _me_.” He put a servo on Optimus's pauldron and leaned over him. “You've treated your pet poorly, dear Prime.”

Optimus pulled away, twisting around to face him. He fixed a glare on Megatron. “Ratchet is not my—”

“Oh, but he _is_.” Megatron laughed. “It was was talk of _you_ that riled him up, and it was _your_ name that he chanted and _sobbed_ as he gripped the table for dear life while I pounded into him, wracking his frame with more pleasure than it could hold.”

Optimus tried to suppress a shudder and failed. The heat in his frame was entirely beyond his control now; his HUD flashed yellow warnings advising him to open his vents wider, and static prickled his vision. He could only pray that Megatron didn't decide to attack him now.

“How long do you think he waited for you?” Megaton asked. “All these vorns, he's stayed faithfully by your side, following wherever you go like a lost cyberpuppy.” He shook his helm in mock sorrow. “I almost pity him.”

Something boiled over inside Optimus. “Enough, Megatron!” He transformed both of his servos to blades, brandishing them stiffly.

Megatron raised an optical ridge. “Well, since I see you cannot be civil, I will be going now.” He raised his blaster arm towards the ceiling and fired, sending debris crashing around him. “Give my regards to Ratchet,” he said with a final smirk, then transformed and flew upwards, disappearing into the sky.

Optimus stared after him for several nanoklicks, not quite daring to believe he was gone. Finally, he lowered his blades, transforming them back to servos.

The pressure behind his spike cover was almost painful, and drops of lubricant from his valve collected behind his panel seal. He needed to cool himself down. Clear his processor. He could hardly think past the heat and the words that played on repeat through his short term memory.

Ratchet with Megatron.

Ratchet calling out his name in overload.

Ratchet wanted him.

 _Still_ wanted him.

He transformed into his vehicle mode and drove out, speeding over rocky terrain and letting the wind whip over him. The shadows around him deepened as the sun began to set.

Gradually, his plating cooled down to something bearable, and the steady rhythm of his wheels cleared the fog from his processor, but the echoing shock of what he'd learned didn't change.

Ratchet... wanted him.

He still remembered the first time he'd refused him, when he'd only just become a Prime. He had duties, he'd said. He belonged to all of Cybertron. He'd never be able to give Ratchet the attention he deserved.

But oh how he'd loved him.

He could deny his own feelings. He had. Ratchet moved on, and he contented himself with simply having the other by his side. No matter how he wanted to hold him and feel the warmth of his spark, fall into recharge beside him…

It was for the best.

Or so he'd thought.

Now, learning that Ratchet _hadn't_ moved on, that he'd been repressing what he felt all this time, that it troubled him to the extent that _Megatron_ had been able to contort it against him…

No.

His spark twisted in agony at the thought of Ratchet suffering. Because of him.

 _Frag propriety,_ he thought. If he was what Ratchet wanted, then he'd give him as much of himself as he could. It was the least he deserved. And if it was only the physical aspect Ratchet wanted from him… Well, he would be whatever he needed.

It was dark by the time he returned for the equipment he'd initially come to the outpost to retrieve. Everything was in working order; it had only been abandoned because the Decepticons had moved in too close. In fact, the primary console was transmitting—

Oh, scrap.

It was transmitting audio to their central hub. He could only hope no one had been watching that particular channel during his earlier encounter… especially since it was frequently Ratchet who managed their communications network.

He packed everything up as quickly as he could and drove back to base.

 

* * *

 

Ratchet was in his quarters when Optimus returned, but it wasn't late enough yet that he'd expect him to be in recharge. He was glad for that, at least. This couldn't wait, not when there was a chance Ratchet had overheard that conversation.

He knocked on his door. There was a brief shuffle, hurriedly approaching pedesteps, and then it opened. Ratchet stared at him for a long klick, optics wide and fans running loud as conflicting emotions whipped through his field, bitter shame the heaviest of all. That pretty well answered the question of whether or not he'd been listening. Optimus's spark spun, his processor replaying fragments of Megatron's words.

_You're not his, Ratchet._

“I’m so sorry, Optimus. You shouldn't have had to hear that,” Ratchet finally found his voice, and the apologies tumbled out in a rapid stream. “It was vulgar and inappropriate—” his servos clenched at his sides, optics avoiding Optimus's face, “—and not an image you needed—especially from someone like _him_ ,” he spat the last word with venomous hatred, glaring off to the side. “I swore him to secrecy. But of course, he's a Decepticon.” He scoffed. “I'm a fool for expecting him to keep his word. Please, try to forget this happened, and allow me to do the same.”

“Ratchet,” Optimus murmured, brushing his fingers lightly against the side of his helm. “I'm sorry.”

Ratchet froze, and Optimus took the opportunity to press a kiss to his lips. He kept it as gentle as he could, giving him a chance to pull away, though he shook with the effort of holding back.

And Ratchet did pull away, wide-opticked and gasping. “You— you don’t need to do this, Optimus.”

“I do,” he said. “If you'll let me.”

“You don't need to pity me.” He folded his arms in front of his chassis and looked away. “I made a slip-up, that's all. I've handled my feelings just fine on my own for vorns.”

Instead of answering, Optimus unfolded his field, showing him the truth he couldn't put to words. It smoldered, quiet yet searing.

_I want to devote myself to you._

Ratchet stared up at him, trembling.

“Optimus…”

Optimus reached out to touch the side of his helm again, cupping it in his servo. Ratchet lifted his own servo to cover his. His touch was light at first, as though he was afraid Optimus might disappear. Then he tightened his grip, squeezing until it hurt. Optimus didn't care.

He leaned down. Ratchet tilted his helm up to meet him, relaxing his hold on his servo as Optimus kissed him again, firmer this time. They stayed like that for a moment, just existing in the same space, neither quite daring to believe it was happening.

Then something broke in Ratchet and he whimpered against him, gripping the back of his helm and deepening the kiss, parting his mouthplates to let him in and pushing his glossa forward to taste him. Optimus responded in kind, mapping out the inside of his intake. Ratchet pulled him in with the intensity of a starving mech, hot and desperate and  _wet._ His oral fluids weren't noticeably different from Optimus's own, but there was something undeniably erotic just in the _knowing_ as they mixed.

Heat bloomed low in his abdomen as his interface systems onlined. Megatron hadn't done _this,_ _tasted_ him like this. Optimus pulled him closer, then wrapped his arms around him and lifted him. Ratchet didn't falter, just tilted his helm for a better angle, moaning into the kiss.

He pulled back only to move down to his neck cables, mouthing along an exposed sensory line. _Primus_ that was good. Optimus shuttered his optics and stretched his neck to the side to give him better access. Ratchet licked and _sucked,_ and Optimus's vents flared wide, his cooling fans whirring into a higher gear.

He stepped the rest of the way inside the room, closing the door behind him, and navigated his way to the berth via proximity sensors. He lowered Ratchet onto it, bending over him and kissing him again.

“Tell me how you want me,” he whispered.

“Just—” Ratchet gasped, “Just you.”

His field flared at that, red hot with arousal. He bent down to press kisses to Ratchet's chassis, running his glossa along transformation seams and edges of plating, while his servos slipped into gaps, seeking out sensitive cabling. He licked around a biolight and Ratchet groaned, servos gripping at him.

A flicker in Ratchet's field gave him pause, and he lifted his helm to look up at him. Ratchet was watching him with wide optics, the current running through his field holding something like disbelief, and there was a tremor in his servos where they rested on the Prime's pauldrons. A pang went through Optimus's spark. That wouldn't do. He raised himself back up and leaned forward to capture his lips, pressing his intent and affection into the kiss and through his field.

 _I'm sorry for making you wait so long,_ he thought. _But I won't let you doubt your worth any longer._

Ratchet kissed back, sloppy and rough and uncoordinated in his desperation, and by the Allspark, Optimus loved this mech so much he ached.

Ratchet wrapped his legs around his waist and ground up against him. “Optimus…” he managed in a staticy tone between kisses, “Please…”

Optimus groaned at the friction and at Ratchet's _voice,_ speaking his name in a way he hadn't dared to let himself imagine before that solar cycle’s fateful encounter. His panel pinged him with a request to open, but he denied it, opting to wait just a bit longer—he wanted to give Ratchet the attention first. He pulled back and moved down, sliding his servo down to Ratchet's abdominal plating.

He brushed over his grill and Ratchet's panel opened with a quiet _snik,_ his spike pressurizing against his wrist. Optimus paused, spark spinning with excited nervousness. _This was really happening._

He wrapped his servo around the spike and stroked it from base to tip, tracing the patterns of biolights as he went. Ratchet lifted his hips upwards into the touch, and he obliged the silent request with a firmer pressure, tightening his digits one by one as he slid them slowly upwards, then rubbing his thumb over the ring of charge nodes near the top. That drew a moan from him, and the sound went straight to Optimus's own panel, somehow heating him even further.

The underside of it was ribbed with heavy ridges that caught and bumped against his digits with each stroke. Primus, what it would be like to have that inside him… His processor conjured images of Ratchet sliding into him, those ridges catching the sensitive tactile sensors in his inner walls, his friend holding him down until he spilled his transfluid deep within him… His valve clenched at the thought, and a trickle of lubricant ran down to pool behind his panel.

But Ratchet hadn't used his spike when he was with Megatron. Optimus shifted his attention and his servo downwards, to where the folds of his valve glistened wetly. He dipped his digits into the beads of lubricant running down the outermost ring, rubbing them around the exterior components in gentle arcs.

Once they were generously coated, he slipped one inside. It went in easily, and the calipers cycled in around it in attempt to increase the friction against the too narrow intrusion and pull it deeper. He added a second digit beside it, bending and scissoring them as he pushed inwards. Ratchet ground up into his servo, burning threads of arousal twining through his field, winding tight and spring-loaded when Optimus found a sensitive area.

Optimus withdrew his digits and Ratchet started to make a noise of protest, but it was cut off when he lowered his helm and gave his valve a slow lick. Ratchet's frame tensed, plating flaring wide and vents stuttering, and his field flared even hotter than it had been, bright with raw desire.

“O— Optimus… you—” Whatever he'd intended to say was lost in static. There was a click of a resetting vocalizer, but all that followed was a low moan.

Optimus circled the tip of his glossa around his anterior node, then pressed it firmly up against it. He ran a servo up Ratchet's thigh in a soft caress, feeling as the medic unraveled beneath him. He fully intended to make up for every vorn they'd missed.

He shuttered his optics, molding his lips to the soft mesh and pushing his glossa inside in reminiscence of a deep kiss. Ratchet choked out his name, servos finding the back of his helm and holding on.

His valve was warm, warmer even than his intake, and his lubricant had an electric tanginess, conductive as it was. Light prickles of static tickled his glossa where he made contact with charge transmitter and receptor nodes, the sensation sending a shiver down his backstrut.

He slipped out to give his anterior node more attention, sweeping over it and suckling lightly. Ratchet trembled, vents growing rapid and uneven as slow waves of helpless pleasure rolled through his field. His hips twitched with the effort of holding back from grinding up against Optimus's face.

Optimus slid his servos under his hips, lifting him slightly. The better angle let him reach deeper than before, finding a hidden cluster of sensory nodes that made Ratchet gasp and tighten his digits around his helm when he touched them.

He hummed a low tone, letting the vibrations travel through his glossa. Then he pressed against the inner walls and gently sucked.

“Yes… Ah.. Optimus…” Ratchet panted, voice tight as it devolved into a noise that could only be called a whine.

Encouraged by the positive reaction, Optimus went gradually harder, moving his lips over the exterior while his glossa slid in and out, pushing against the inner walls until they clenched and rippled almost spasmodically. Ratchet cried out, his frame stiffening and pedes grating against the berth. He gripped at Optimus's helm for dear life as overload surged through him, digits scraping hard enough to take off paint.

The sting of it—the manifestation of making his ever-careful, protective Ratchet lose control—sent a thrill through Optimus. He persisted in his ministrations all the way through, letting Ratchet ride out his high even as the burst of charge overloaded the delicate sensors in his intake and sent them into a forced reboot.

He let up only when Ratchet's frame went limp, the medic falling temporarily offline as his systems reset. He climbed up over him, blinking as though that would somehow clear the haze of charge in his processor. He cupped Ratchet's helm, running his thumb along his audial as he waited for him.

Ratchet's optics onlined, and the softness of his bleary smile when he saw Optimus sent a fresh ache of longing through his spark. He leaned down and Ratchet caught him halfway, pulling him into a kiss. The medic's glossa flicked out to lick the wetness of his own fluids from Optimus's lips, a flutter of renewed heat appearing in his field.

One of his servos drifted down to Optimus's panel, applying gentle pressure, and Optimus let it slide open, groaning long and low as his spike was finally allowed to pressurize. Ratchet wrapped his digits around it and gave it a slow stroke, and Optimus let out a choked gasp, hips jerking involuntarily into the aching pleasure.

“Please, Optimus,” Ratchet whispered. “I want to remember you in me, not him.”

His vents stuttered, optics finding Ratchet's and seeing the emotion that burned in him. There was a deep devotion there, undercut with aching need. Tiny tremors of fear still wavered through his field, and Optimus realized he'd never let himself be this vulnerable, not since the first time all those vorns ago when he'd laid his feelings bare and Optimus had turned away—regretfully, and with an honest an explanation as he could give, but turned away all the same.

Now the walls he'd built around his injured spark were crashing down, and nothing in the world could stop Optimus from trying to make this time different.

He kissed him again with deep hunger, letting every drop of ancient resurfaced emotion pour into it. He wanted Ratchet like he'd never wanted anything in all of his long life. He _needed_ him, needed to show him all that he meant to him, the place he held in his spark.

His servos slid down Ratchet's sides to rest on his hips, and he shifted to align the tip of his spike with Ratchet's valve entrance. A shock of static licked between them the instant the overcharged nodes made contact with the conductive lubricant, startling a gasp from Optimus and making Ratchet's fans stutter.

He pushed in, groaning at the sensation of the heated mesh enveloping his spike. It rippled around him, calipers cycling wider and clenching in turns, sending shivers of pleasure up through his frame. A moan slipped from Ratchet's vocalizer, his optics flickering a bright white as Optimus rocked gently, slipping a little further up into him with each motion.

When he was fully sheathed he paused, needing a moment to take in the sensation of being _inside_ Ratchet. His spark sang with adoration and no little awe at the sight of the mech lying below him—his dearest, beloved Ratchet—looking up at him with vents heavy and lips parted, optical ridges drawn together in an expression of taught pleasure.

Beautiful.

He bent to capture those lips again, slipping his glossa into the space between them. At the same time, he pulled his hips back, drawing his spike part way out, and then thrust back in. Ratchet gasped, breaking away from the kiss for the briefest instant before diving back up with renewed intensity.

Optimus repeated the motion, setting a slow but steady pace that sent charge crackling between them in rhythmic bursts, each a lightning-streak of pure pleasure. Ratchet gripped at his plating, vocalizer vibrating with a deep groan in the back of his throat as their lips molded together repeatedly.

His frame would have felt searing to the touch had Optimus's own temperature not risen by the same amount. The heat poured from them in intoxicating waves, fogging his processor until coherent thought was beyond him. He simply _felt,_ guided by the emotion that bubbled up within him, the urge to quell the desperate longing that lay bare in Ratchet's field and fill him instead with the care and devotion his spark could hardly contain. It swelled, warm and bright and beautiful, and why had he ever denied this?

“I love you, Ratchet,” he whispered, voice rough with static.

Ratchet's optics flew open, blindingly bright as he stared up at him, a tremor running through his frame. His valve clenched, and a low groan escaped Optimus's vocalizer at the sudden sensation. He kissed Ratchet again and the medic whimpered against him, a soft, helpless sound that brought an ache to his spark.

Optimus rolled his hips on the next thrust, seeking out angles that would reach the places Ratchet was most sensitive. The heated whip of the other's field told him when he found it. His pace increased, spurred by Ratchet's breathy moans and the charge building within his own frame, his entire neural net quivering with the need to release.

Ratchet arched against him, Optimus's name spilling in a broken mantra from his lips until his vocalizer shorted out with a pop of static and he was left strung in a silent gasp. Optimus kept his gaze locked on his face, enthralled at the sight of him—his _lover_ —lost in the climax he'd brought him to. The moment seemed to freeze as the charge crested, bright streaks of electricity dancing across the surface of his plating.

Then it broke, surging out of his frame at every point of contact. It hit Optimus in a wave just as Ratchet's valve clenched in a hot ripple, and Optimus's vision went white, leaving him blind and helpless against the pleasure. He gripped tight at Ratchet, burying his helm against his chassis and letting out a harsh cry as his hydraulics tensed and his transfluid released deep inside him.

He onlined to the gentle thrum of Ratchet's engine beneath him and the touch of a servo stroking the back of his helm.

“Optimus?” a shaky voice asked, the servo stilling. There was the click of a resetting vocalizer.

Optimus lifted himself so he wasn't crushing Ratchet under his weight.

“I'm here, Ratchet.”

“You're—” Conflicting expressions flitted across the medic's face. “Are you—”

Optimus shifted to lie beside him, then pulled him close and pressed a light kiss to his chevron. Ratchet was tense, some part of him still afraid, still trying to close himself off and re-erect the walls that protected him, even as his servos gripped at Optimus.

Optimus pushed reassurance through his field. “I'm staying.” He let his emotions float freely, out in the open for Ratchet to read his sincerity.

“You're still Prime,” Ratchet said, barely above a whisper. “What changed?”

“I believe I was wrong before. I can still fulfill my duties without denying what I feel. And…” He paused. “Until… _recently,_ I thought you had moved on.”

Ratchet snorted. “Until the slagmaker decided to stick his filthy servos all up in our business, you mean.” He paused, and hot shame bloomed in his field. “I'm sorry—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Optimus cut him off firmly. “We were not together, and Megatron giving me the, ah... _sordid details_ was not your fault.”

“I suppose it makes sense that you're not the jealous type, all things considered,” Ratchet said in a wry tone.

“Do not misunderstand.” He tipped his helm forward to press their forehelms together, curling his field around him possessively. “I was very jealous.”

Ratchet's field gave a giddy pulse at the admission. “So then… all this time, you…” He trailed off, the words dying in his vocalizer.

“Yes,” Optimus said softly, letting the one word speak volumes.

_You were not alone._

“In all honesty, I had _hoped_ you would move on,” Optimus admitted. “Though the selfish part of me is glad that you did not. You…” He brought his servo up to brush the side of his helm. “You deserve so much more than a mech who belongs to Cybertron—as I still do, whatever the state of the planet itself may be.”

“Optimus, you…” Ratchet shook his helm as best he could from the position he was lying in. “I never wanted anyone but you.”

“I understand that, now.” Optimus smiled. "I love you, Ratchet. With all my spark. And I'll find a way to be with you, if you'll still have me.”

“Yes,” Ratchet answered, voice rough with static. “Of course, yes.” He leaned forward and kissed him once, twice, three times, each firm and insistent and so, so sweet. “Primus, I would be a fool to say no, when all these vorns I've never been able to stop loving you.”

Optimus’s spark swelled. He leaned forward to reclaim the medic's lips, and the tension finally released from Ratchet's frame as they molded together with slow, aching tenderness. They had each other now, and neither had any plans to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus:
> 
> “I believe I may have to give Megatron my thanks next time we meet,” Optimus said with an amused smile. “Despite the intention behind his actions, I now have you here beside me because of them.”
> 
> “Pit,” Ratchet laughed. “Save me a clip of it if you do. I want to see the look on his face.”
> 
> \--
> 
> theme song for the second half of this fic: https://youtu.be/g6EBTQ4Xcck


End file.
